Living While We Breathe
by TheDoodlesAreAlive
Summary: John Watson has done many dangerous things, raising a child with Sherlock more so than any other. Parentlock, no romantic Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

"Crispies."

John looked up from his computer. The little girl, with a head of curly blond hair and large brown eyes, stared at him from her place on the floor. In one hand she held a stuffed purple lion, and the other worked to keep her propped upright. There were a few other toys in a circle around her, mostly stuffed lions of different colors. John stood and leaned down on the outside of the circle, a smile spreading on his face.

"What's that, Lily?" he asked. She often spoke with a hushed voice that no one could hear her, save Mary. Mary always knew what she was saying.

"Get crispies." For such a little creature, she knew how to make demands. She looked him in the eye and didn't turn away. John smiled.

"Right, crispies." Crackers, really, but John wasn't going to be the one to break the news to her. "And where are the crispies?" He stood, letting her catch his hand and hold him halfway down.

She marched them into the neat kitchen. Mary had done wonders to the place, indirectly. When they'd first discussed the idea of Lily spending time at 221B, the kitchen had been Mary's number one concern. Although it was used like a normal kitchen was and housed normal kitchen things, it still had stains from chemicals on every surface, and places where slices had been taken out of furniture. He glanced at the refrigerator.

"A new one," Mary had said.

"But this one works fine." John had been busy enough with considering buying a new set of chairs and silverware, but a refrigerator too?

"John, I'm not slow. You must have realized how leftovers taste after a night in here."

He would admit that things did take on a peculiar taste after a few hours sitting in the old refrigerator. He'd always chalked it up to poor quality and forgotten about it not ten minutes later. Thinking it over, it occurred to him that some of its old contents could have had something to do with the flavor.

After that, he agreed to a new refrigerator, as well as a small set of silverware kept separate from the old. The chairs were given new covers.

"Crispies." Lily had no desire for walks down memory lane. She watched him as he opened the top cabinet and pulled them out, the familiar sound of the snack bringing a smile to her face. She reached up and he handed one down to her.

"Thank you," she said as she turned back to her toys and walked back into the living room. John followed, the box still in his hand. He watched as she picked up the purple lion, named Pupple, again. She gave him a squeeze and reached up for another crispie when John came close. He handed another on to her and took one for himself. It was dry, and tasted bland with just a touch of sweetness.

He returned to his computer. He'd been trying to update his blog for the past few minutes with little success. Far from its days of internet fame, his posts had been reduced to chatter about going out with friends and the occasional excitement at the hospital. He wouldn't have bothered at all if Mary hadn't asked for him to do so for her birthday. He'd laughed ("You could jut ask me how my day went, you know."), but he agreed. For some reason, it pleased her, and he would do just about anything to make her smile, even if it meant pondering in front of his computer, waiting for something exciting to happen.

Thinking about the blog and excitement let his mind wander into dangerous territory. He could feel it about to breach the wall when he realized what he was doing and snapped at himself. Lily jumped at the sound.

"Sorry, honey, not you. You didn't do anything," he promised. She returned to her lions, forgetting about the incident in favor of the story she was crafting. He smiled and looked around. Sitting around, waiting for inspiration, would do nothing good. He had some paperwork in his bag that had to be done. Maybe sorting through that would remind him of a particularly fascinating bit of his routine. He got up and walked to the bedroom. He didn't have to climb the stairs these days; he slept in the lower room now.

His bag rested against the foot of the bed. He picked it up and looked through it. Yes, he'd brought home everything he needed, all of the work was there. Taking it by the handle, he carried it back the living room.

It was embarrassing how long it took him to figure out what was wrong. Eight seconds. For eight seconds, he stood and looked for what was missing. Something that had been there before wasn't any more.

Lily's circle of toys was empty. He looked around. "Lily?" he called. There was no answer. He searched the room, and then again. He looked through the kitchen, explored his bedroom, even went upstairs and checked his old bedroom. "Lily!"

There was no sign of her. Lily was gone.

"Oh God." It was not a part of John's nature to panic. Years in the army and a dislike of the thing as a whole helped to shape that. However, he couldn't fight the few shreds of it that struck him now. Lily wasn't in the flat, he didn't have any idea how she got out, and he'd just spent the last few minutes wasting time. Now, there was none left to lose.

He ran outside, and in his haste almost forgot to lock the door behind him. When he did so, he found a note stuck to the door's knocker.

DOING ANYTHING FOR NEW YEAR TONIGHT?

He stared at it. New Year's wasn't for another three months. A part of his mind screamed "Puzzle", but it was the part he didn't like all that much. It was also the part that didn't like to be ignored.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket. First things first, of course.

He began walking in one direction down the street. It didn't matter much which way he was going, not yet. He just had to move. The phone rang once, twice. It went four more times before he heard, "Hello, this is Mary Morstan. Sorry that I can't get to the phone right now, leave a message, if you please!" It beeped and he spoke quickly. "Mary, it's John, um, I need to talk to you. Soon. Something's come up, and I, uh, really need to speak to you. I'll try again in a bit. Bye." He closed the phone. He hadn't fully expected her to answer (she was at work, after all), but it still made him uneasy that she didn't. Now he was left to search London all by himself.

He looked at the card again. He'd seen that handwriting before; he was sure. And a distant memory, far back in his mind said that that phrase had been spoken to him. Where had it been? What were they trying to tell him? He knew that this would be the point where he should have called the police, but he also know from experience that criminals who left clues were not usually the type to take kindly to interference. He had to figure this out alone.

He was taking a look around the street when it struck him. A distant memory, battered and old but still usable, crept into his mind. There had been a woman standing right in front of the flat, asking the same question as was on the card. She had approached him, and then… And then…

The car! A black car had picked them up and driven them off. Where had it taken them? That had to be it. Was it? Didn't seem like the same level of complication that most criminals offered. There had to be something else, but he couldn't think of anything and decided it was best to start off with what he was certain of. The black car had driven him off to the abandoned warehouse, which seemed just as good a place to start as any.

John hailed a taxi, and told the driver where to go. He missed the feeling of having a gun in his hands. Although it had been a year ago that he got rid of it, he could still remember the small comfort he took in having it with him. At the moment, he was mostly unprotected, with no idea of whom he was approaching. He tried to think of who it could be that knew about that day in front of 221B. Irene Adler would, of course, and her… colleague? He supposed that someone who had known her could now be targeting him as well, but he hadn't the foggiest idea why. Moriarty's lot could have been spying on them that day, but why come after him now, and why use that bit of trivia? He had a great deal of difficulty trying to make sense of it all. None of it clicked, nothing seemed to stick quite right. He watched buildings pass out the cab window. Soon enough, he supposed, he would know. That is, if they didn't put a bullet through his head the moment he showed up.

John realized that the thought hadn't yet occurred to him. In his desperation to find Lily, he hadn't considered the idea that this may very well have been a trap, that Lily was already dead and there was nothing left to do but protect himself.

He pushed the thought away. It didn't matter. There was a chance Lily was alive, and as long as that chance was there, he had to do everything in his power to get her back.

The driver pulled up in front of the building. John paid the cabbie. "Hey, um, can you wait here?" John asked. The man nodded. John thanked him and left.

He approached the tall, solid walls. The building was just as he remembered it, not that he had expected it to change much. There were a few more busted windows than he recalled, and the graffiti had been layered upon. For all intents and purposes, though, it was just the same as he'd left it.

The front door was ajar. Pushing it open a bit more, he passed inside. He was sure that there was a temperature drop, unsurprising due to its constant shelter from the sun.

He felt that calling out would be a bad idea, even if his intuition was correct and whoever had taken Lily was expecting him here.

He walked through the maze of walls and old machinery. He knew where he was going: the same place he'd met with Irene, where she had declared herself alive. It had been a strange meeting of mixed feelings, one that he didn't like to think about too much.

John approached the windowed room with caution. He couldn't see any gunmen, not immediately, and there were no explosives being strapped onto his chest. Overall, things were going well so far. He took a brave step forward and looked around.

Lily was on the floor with her box of crackers and Pupple squished close to her chest. She looked up when he came near, but made no move towards him. Instead, she continued crunching away.

"Lily." A sigh of relief escaped John and, after checking for any traps, rushed forward and scooped her up. "You're all right," he said. He said it with the purpose of comforting her, but found that it helped him more so. She was obviously unperturbed by the past hour or so.

There were footsteps, heavy footsteps, probably that of a man. John stood so that he held Lily away from the sound, thus putting himself between her and whoever was coming closer.

"Excellent job, John," a voice said. "Honestly, I expected you to take a while longer remembering it."

John froze. He knew the voice. He knew it well and had played it time over time in his head, just to be sure that he still remembered it. He knew the owner of the voice, knew everything about him. He knew the man's favorite music and least favorite times of day. He knew the owner's laugh, knew what made him laugh at all. Most of all, he knew that the owner could not have possibly been in that room, at that moment. It was impossible.

"I'll explain the details to you later. For now…" Sherlock stepped into the room, hands in his pockets and grinning. "…it's good to see you."

John almost dropped Lily. In an hour, this would mortify him. In a week, he would laugh. For now, though, he was confused and scared and awed, though less that than the other two.

"You're dead," he forced out.

"Obviously not."

"No, that's not fair." John stepped back. "You were dead, Sherlock! I saw you fall, I checked your bloody pulse!"

Lily whimpered. John remembered how close she was and how much she hated shouting. He wasn't through with Sherlock, but the least he could do for her was put her down.

"Now tell me what the hell you're doing!" John started again once Lily was safely on the floor.

"Greeting you for the first time in… three years, now?" He stepped towards John. "Thought you'd be a bit happier to see me," he said. John could see the flash of hurt on Sherlock's face, quickly smothered but nonetheless bubbling under the surface.

"Happy? _Happy?_" John advanced on his old flat mate. "Sherlock, I was happy waking up this morning and having toast. I was happy going grocery shopping for dinner tonight. I was happy living a _normal_, Sherlock-less life. I've had three years to readjust to it, and now you show up and expect me to be _happy_?"

"Yes."

John felt trapped, facing the incredible man who had changed his life all those years ago. He didn't know how to respond. Did Sherlock just expect him to welcome him back to life with open arms? Did he think John did nothing but sit for three years and wait for him to come home?

Of course he didn't. Sherlock had worked to make sure that John was convinced that he was dead. After that, John doubted the consulting detective would want John to grow old waiting for his old life to return to him. If Sherlock had really died, he would have expected John to move on, or so he hoped.

Sherlock was staring at him, probably deducing how the last few years had treated him. John tried to do the same, but all he could think was, "He's alive, he's alive, he's _alive_."

He was happy. He didn't want to be, but he really was. He closed the space between them and wrapped his arms around the consulting detective. "It's good to see you," he returned.

* * *

**So, that's the first chapter! ^^ I hope you found it enjoyable, and I'll try to get the next one out as soon as possible! Gosh, I'm so excited about this story. I've got some exciting plans for it, and I can't wait to get it on to the page so that I can share it with the rest of you.**

**Being American myself, it's more than likely that I'll make a few mistakes with the British bit. If you see anything that doesn't belong, I'd love for you to tell me! Thanks!**


	2. Chapter 2

"Next time you want to meet up," John said as they left the building, "you could just call me."

"This was a bit more interesting though, wasn't it?" Sherlock followed close behind, holding the box in one hand.

"I suppose it was interesting, yeah." He shifted his hold on Lily, and remembered that any encouragement almost guaranteed that the act would happen a second time. "But that doesn't mean I'm okay with you kidnapping Lily again!" A smirk from Sherlock told him that it was too late. The damage was already done.

John got into the waiting taxi, still holding Lily. Sherlock climbed through the other door.

"221B Baker Street," John said. The driver nodded and started off, wary of the two new passengers.

"Her name's Lily?"

John was surprised. He hadn't expected Sherlock to care. "Yeah, she's—"

"Mary's adopted daughter, I know."

He grinned at Sherlock. "Want to tell me how you figured that out?"

"Of course I do." Sherlock sat a bit straighter, and John watched him with rapt attention. "Figuring out that you were involved with Mary would have been simple even for an especially normal person. She visits you often, sometimes spends nights. You took her out to eat on Saturday, easy enough to assume it was a date."

"Hold on, hold on." John waved up his hand. "Do you mean you've been _spying_ on me?"

"I've had my attention on you so that I may be fully aware of your current situation."

"Spying, Sherlock."

Sherlock huffed. "I am no more a spy that you are a consulting detective. Oh, you know what I mean."

John shook his head. It wouldn't be worth the effort to convince Sherlock otherwise, so he let it drop. "So, you figured out that Mary and I were together. What came next?"

"In the mornings, Mary would take Lily to Baker Street and on the nights when she didn't stay, she took her home with her. So, she's obviously Mary's daughter. Despite that, Mary has never been through pregnancy. A surrogate mother is possible, however unlikely. Given Mary's obsession with photographs, it would be odd for them to only begin appearing around Lily's second birthday. Adoption is the reasonable conclusion to be drawn from that."

"Wait, hold on, how did you know… _Sherlock_."

"I was trying to gain a full understanding of your situation."

"That doesn't mean you can sneak into my _girlfriend's bloody apartment_."

Sherlock tensed, and John could feel his anger deflate against his will.

"Won't happen again," the detective promised.

"It'd better not."

John sighed to himself and hugged Lily a little tighter. She had been quiet in the cab, which seemed unusual to him. He looked down into her eyes. "You all right?"

"Yeah," she said. "You?"

"I'm good," he said, ignoring Sherlock's glare.

"Who's that?" she asked. John smiled.

"That's Sherlock. He's my friend."

She blinked and stared at the tall man at John's side. John watched her, wondering what was going through her mind. Would she like him when she was older? Would growing up with Sherlock help her learn how to put up with him?

What role would Sherlock play in her life? His brain threw out Uncle, but that didn't seem right. Older Brother was another unfitting suggestion. Maybe there wasn't a word for it yet. Maybe Sherlock would have to invent a role for himself in her life, as he had in John's. Whatever Sherlock did, Lily's life was guaranteed to be quite a bit more interesting than it had been looking two hours ago.

The cab pulled up in front of 221B. John paid the driver and got out of the cab still holding Lily close. Sherlock had already made his way up to the door and stood in front of it, watching John approach with keys ringing in his hand.

"You'll want to be careful when we go inside," John said. "We should figure out how we tell Mrs. Hudson about this before we go and give her a fright."

"Not to worry," Sherlock said. "She's been made aware."

John paused, key still in the lock. "She knows?"

Sherlock gave him one of those infuriating _looks_. The one that said, "You're being stupid and I'm not going to repeat myself." Had John not been caught up in the news flash, he would have marveled at his ability to remember Sherlock's many aggravating quirks, even after three years of not seeing the man's face.

He returned to unlocking the door. "Is she the only one?"

"No."

"Who else knows, then?" He opened the door and set Lily down, relieved to be free to move again.

"John, I didn't keep it from you to-"

John raised a hand. "I know, Sherlock. I know." He looked up at his friend again and gave a small smile. "Just tell me who I can talk to without being worried about accidentally giving you away too soon."

Sherlock seemed to consider for a second, then nodded. "Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly are all aware. No one else has been told."

"Molly? You mean Molly Hooper?"

"Yes, I can't recall knowing any other Molly. Have you met one?"

John shook his head. "No, I'm just… surprised. Why would you tell Molly of all people?"

"She was the first to know," Sherlock said. "She aided in my disappearance." He took a small step to the stairs. "May we go up?"

"Right, yeah." He lifted up Lily again and carried her up to the flat. Even with her weight on his hip, it was refreshing to step into the living room with Sherlock close behind. It felt right, as though all the times he'd come home alone had been wrong somehow. He smiled again. He looked up to find the consulting detective himself had a light grin on his face. It disappeared when John looked, like a child darting their hand out of the cookie jar.

"Tea?" he offered. Sherlock gave a short nod and stepped into the living room. John watched him walk in, the light from the window transforming him into a silhouette before his eyes readjusted and he could once again make out his long coat and dark curls. There was a consulting detective in his flat. John tried to wrap his head around that thought, but his mind couldn't quite grasp it. The full weight of the idea was still tethered up beyond his reach. It would fall on his at some point, he was sure, and he only hoped he wasn't carrying anything fragile when it did.

He placed Lily on the ground. She glanced at his face once, and then walked back over to her ring of toys. John watched until she had made herself comfortable among the colorful lions. Her play resumed, no different to an outsider than it had been before Sherlock had stopped by earlier. John glanced up at his friend, to find him watching Lily as well.

A thought struck him. He had been so worried about Lily, understandably, that he had forgotten to wonder what Sherlock thought of all this. Although John didn't feel as though he himself had changed much, his situation had. He doubted even Sherlock would expect him to drop everything he'd gained in the lat three years, but the other end of the spectrum, leaving Sherlock behind, seemed just as unlikely. There had to be some sort of middle ground, but where was it? What did it entail?

"Tea?" Sherlock said, snapping John out of his thoughts and back to the small living room.

He nodded. "How do you like yours, again?"

Sherlock smirked.

John groaned. "You can't expect me to remember how you take your bloody _tea_ after three years."

"On the contrary," Sherlock said. That damn smirk wouldn't go away.

"_Fine_, fine." John couldn't think of anything more to say. If Sherlock wouldn't tell him, then he would just have to deal with the consequences.

John marched into the kitchen and made tea. He put two sugars in Sherlock's and just a drop of milk. He figured that he might as well make it appear as though there had been an attempt.

He stepped back into the living room a few minutes later. Sherlock had made himself comfortable in his old chair and his eyes were flicking around, filling himself in on what had transpired over the past three years. He paused his deductions to look up at John and take one of the steaming mugs from him.

John was curious to see how he'd done. The look on Sherlock's face made it plenty obvious that, while he'd managed to remember many aspects of his character, Sherlock's tea preferences were not a part of them.

"If you tell me how you like it then this won't have to happen again," John said.

Sherlock shook his head and took another sip.

John sighed and sat down in his own chair. He felt that they should talk, but he couldn't think of what to talk about. Not only that, he didn't particularly want to. He was happy the way things were at that moment, no need to spoil it with unwanted chatter. There would be time for discussion later, when Sherlock could tell him exactly how the consulting detective had managed it and what he'd been up to since then. They would have to talk about John's life, about Mary and the years of silence between him and Scotland Yard. All of it would have to be figured out and sorted through, but for now, all he wanted to do was enjoy tea with his best friend.

A half hour later, no one had said a word and John realized it was about time that he made Lily dinner. He had planned to cook chicken and pasta, but found that he had run out of time and would have to resort to the simplest meal he had on hand: macaroni and cheese in a box.

He stood from his chair. Sherlock's eyes flicked to him, and then went back down. John considered warning Sherlock once again to not kidnap Lily, but decided against it. It wasn't worth it to break the comfortable silence.

Pan, water, cooker. Cooking, if it could even be called that, required little thinking. It was just simple actions that became simpler each time he did them. He poured the macaroni into the water and set a timer. 15 minutes.

John stepped back into the living room for a moment. Sherlock was still quiet. Lily was still playing. He liked the feeling it gave him, even if he couldn't explain what it was.

The ringing of his phone spoiled the moment. Lily looked up at him, eyebrows furrowed against the noise. John stepped back into the kitchen and fished it out of his trouser pocket. He didn't recognise the number on the screen, and with a feeling of unease put it up to his ear.

"Hello?" he said.

"Dr. Watson." It was his boss.

"Erm, yes, hello, Mr. Donnellon." He was never sure how much formality the man wanted. He walked with a straight back and always had a commanding air about him, but his office was decorated with pictures drawn by his young children. It was difficult enough to gauge at the hospital, but talking off hours on his phone left him with no idea any which way. "Is something the matter?"

"It's about Mary. Mary Morstan, your girlfriend, was it?" The man's tone answered John's question in a way words were unable to. His heart thudded painfully.

"Yes," he said. His shoulder hurt. Or was it his leg? Everything felt wrong, all of the serenity dried up and replaced with a toxic pool of dread. Sherlock's eyes were on him. He couldn't turn around, felt like he couldn't move.

Mr. Donnellon sighed. "I'm sorry, John." Everything flipped over. His whole world was upside down, and he was left dangling, all alone. "She's dead."


	3. Chapter 3

John wasn't sure how he got to St Bart's. He had no memory past the phone call, and even that was fuzzy.

He rubbed his eyes. How long had he been there? A minute? An hour? He felt that either would have passed just the same. The passage of time was lost to him. He felt disconnected from the outside world, like watching it through a thick layer of glass. There were people walking by, all sorts of people. Some he recognized: doctors he worked with, nurses he'd spoken to. Others were unfamiliar to him. There was a woman with a thick bandage on her hand, a man sitting next to his teenage daughter. Nobody tried to speak to him, and he was fine with that. They could continue whatever they were doing, and leave him alone behind his protective glass wall.

There were many things with him, in his protected pocket: memories, thoughts that needed to be sorted out. Something had happened… something bad… And then he would remember the phone call, and Sherlock catching him when he swayed, and tearing out the front door to get to the hospital, and sitting down for to wait for nothing. He would remember all of it, and then push it back and find himself once again wondering how he had gotten himself to the hospital.

Sometimes, during the flashes of pain when he was reminded of everything that happened, he would wonder why his face was so dry. Didn't people cry when bad things happened? People certainly cried when they were in pain, or afraid. Why wasn't the ache in his chest making him cry? What about it was different? And then the respite would come and he would forget to wonder about it.

After what felt like an eternity of going in a hopeless circle, his phone beeped. He pulled it out with the effort it took to move a mountain and stared at the text on the screen.

_John, come back to the flat. SH_

He stood up from his chair and made his way through the crowd of people. Everything felt different, although he couldn't put his finger on what it was. He took care to not bump into anyone as he stepped outside. The sun was down at that point, leaving faintest traces of day before night took over. He considered calling a cab, but decided against it. Sitting would just be an invitation for thinking.

He trudged along the London streets, his entire focus on putting one foot in front of the other. He didn't want to think about anything else. He didn't want to think about the hospital, or the flat, or _anything_. He just wanted to get into his bed, but he couldn't, because going to bed meant thinking and memories and things that he didn't want in his head.

Despite knowing the flat inside and out, John felt lost once he was in the front door. What did he do? There wasn't one place he wanted to be. The flat felt wrong somehow, and he would have turned around and walked back out had two very important people not been waiting for him.

He climbed the steps up and entered the living room. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, holding his violin in a guitar fashion. He was plucking at the untuned strings, eyes on John.

John sat in his own chair. With his head leaning against his hand and the simple sounds of the violin filling up his mind, he thought that maybe, _maybe_, he could fall asleep just like this, without any worry about thinking. Sherlock's eyes were on him, analyzing, deducing who knew what. John didn't care to know.

"I put Lily in her crib," Sherlock said.

John's eyebrows furrowed, trying to remember whom this "Lily" was and why she was important. "Right," he said. He couldn't think of any other reply for it, not right then.

He was relieved that it seemed to be enough of a response for Sherlock, as he returned to his violin plucking without another word. John sank down into sleep, until he was floating away on dreams.

_Afghanistan. This was obvious. He was running, running, running, along a dirt path, and he didn't know where he was going. He was only running, running for his life._

_Boom! The ground exploded again. Again? Yes, of course, it had been exploding the whole time, on either side of the dirt road. Boom! He fell, and moved his hands to protect the small box he was carrying. It didn't matter what happened to him, he was only transport. The box had to stay safe._

_He got himself up and began running again. Bam! A gunshot, the bullet flying by his ear. He didn't know which direction it came from. Bam! Bam bam bam! Boom! There was loud noise everywhere and suddenly he couldn't escape it, he had to run the other way, but he couldn't, because the ground wasn't there anymore. A tall wall of buildings, London buildings, was in his way. Boom! The explosions were getting closer. He jumped and grabbed a convenient fire escape, climbing for safety, the box still clutched close._

_He climbed and climbed, explosions receding until he reached the top and they disappeared behind him. The building was narrow, it only took him a few paces to reach the edge and look down from it._

_The London street was far closer than he expected, but not something he would jump from. Across the way, Sherlock stood on a similar building, watching John. The doctor waved._

"_Sherlock!" he called. Sherlock smiled, and waved back._

"_Hang on!" John called. "I'm coming over." Sherlock, still smiling, nodded._

_John looked down, just once, to find a way down, and when he looked back, Sherlock wasn't alone. There was a person with him, standing beside him and facing John with a far less appealing smile. John felt the air rush out of him._

"_Sherlock! Sherlock!" he yelled. "Sherlock, he's right beside you! It's him!" Sherlock continued standing there, smiling, waiting for John to come and join the fun. The man placed a hand on Sherlock's back, and John knew exactly what he was going to do._

_In a moment, John had the box open. A gun, but not his gun. No, this was long and black and made just for this job. He pulled it out and held it in just the way he'd been taught, the movements coming easily. He took aim at the man, the dangerous, horrible man, the man's head, and he fired. The bullet hit, but it was Mary's scream he heard. Sherlock stared at the crumpled body on the roof with him, and then back at John. He shook his head once, and jumped._

"John. John! It's all right, you're all right!"

John gasped awake and looked around. He wasn't in Afghanistan. He wasn't on a roof. He was in his flat, lying on the floor, with Sherlock above him. His friend moved aside as John sat up and leaned himself against the chair he didn't remember getting out of.

"You had a nightmare," Sherlock stated. John would have punched him, had the dream not sapped him of every ounce of strength in his body.

"Good deduction," he said instead.

"I was in it."

That one managed to surprise John. "How'd you figure that out?"

"Not hard to deduce when you're shouting my name in your sleep," Sherlock said.

"Oh." He leaned his head back and looked at the ceiling. "Did I really shout?"

"Yes."

John sighed. "I hope I didn't wake anyone up."

"Doubtful. Would've heard something by now, if anyone had suddenly been roused by your calls. You might've given somebody a fright, nothing more."

John considered, picking his head back up. "That's good, I guess." He faced Sherlock. "Did I give you a fright?" The consulting detective didn't answer, which said more than John thought words could manage. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You can hardly be blamed for a nightmare." He shifted to be a little more comfortable on the floor. "I take it you don't want to go back to sleep."

"Not really, no," John said. "I have to, though. Work in the morning."

"No," Sherlock said.

"No?" John sat up a bit. "What do you mean, no? I have to go to work, Sherlock."

"You're not fit to be working," Sherlock said. "You'd be turned back if you tried to step foot into the hospital."

"I'm not sick."

"You've suffered a major loss," Sherlock pointed out.

John froze at the mention. "Please don't remind me again, Sherlock."

"But-"

"_Please_." Sherlock seemed taken aback by John's harsh tone. "I just… I want to forget that today happened, so that maybe I can go to bed tonight and wake up tomorrow and find out I had the worst dream of my life."

"The worst?"

"_Yes_, the worst." He rubbed his eyes. He was tired, but he knew that he wouldn't fall asleep if he tried.

There was silence between them for a few minutes, and John wondered if Sherlock had finally learned how to stay quiet when necessary.

"I missed you." He guessed not— Wait.

"What?" John looked back at Sherlock, who was looking down at his hands.

"I missed you, while I was away," Sherlock said.

John was fazed by the statement. Dripping with sentiment and caring, it seemed wrong for it to come out of _Sherlock's_ mouth. However, there it was, and John found that he would have to reply in some way that didn't show his utter astonishment.

His voice was quiet. "Then why did you leave?"

Sherlock paused. "I had to," he said. "If I hadn't, his sniper would have shot you."

John nodded and looked away again. That was enough explanation for him. In all honesty, he didn't want to know what Sherlock had spent the last three years doing. He wanted that to be behind them, and knowing what had happened would be the surest way to guarantee that he couldn't move forward.

"I missed you too," he said.

He felt that that was enough sentiment for tonight: enough for a lifetime.

Sherlock, he saw, felt the same, as he gave just a short, pleased nod before standing straight. John followed him up.

"What now?" he asked.

"Well, seeing as it's about 12:30, I'd advise that we both go to bed," Sherlock said, to which John nodded in agreement. "Good. I'll see you in the morning, then." And with that, he made his way back to his old bed room on the lower floor.

"Ah, um, Sherlock," John said. The consulting detective looked back, a single eyebrow raised. John found that he didn't have the heart to say flat-out that that wasn't his room anymore. "That's where Lily's crib is." The upstairs room had been out of the question, seeing as how it was filled with boxes of Sherlock's old things that nobody knew what to do with.

"Problem?"

"She might wake you up. In the night."

Sherlock smirked. "No problem, then."

John didn't have the energy to argue, and he found that he didn't much want to, anyway. "Goodnight, then, Sherlock."

"Goodnight."

They parted ways. John considered going up to his old bed, still upstairs, but decided the sofa would be better. Even if he wasn't in the same room as Lily, he wanted to be close enough to know if something really went wrong. It wasn't that he didn't trust Sherlock. No, even after all this, he still had and unrealistic amount of faith in the man. If Sherlock said he had left in order to protect John, then John would believe him. It might have been a bit unhealthy, but so was chasing (and being chased by) murderers and kidnappers.

He switched off the lights, and in the darkness pulled a blanket off the back of the sofa. He settled down, not caring that he was still fully dressed. In the dark, he found himself considering once again what Sherlock's return meant for him, and for Lily. She was a part of this, now. There was no way he could drop her off at the nearest doorstep and continue on as if she wasn't important. She was important, very important. She felt like— no, she _was_ John's daughter, now. He and Mary had agreed that legal guardianship would pass over to him, in the event that Mary…

He rubbed his eyes. He couldn't bring himself to think the word. It was far too much, far too new.

He rolled on his side, staring into the darkness. He wasn't sure what moving on meant, but he would manage it. He had last time, and he'd been alone then. Now, he had his best friend and his daughter with him, and with time, he was sure that he would manage.

* * *

**Sorry this took so long. I struggled with this chapter for a while, and I'm still not sure how much I like it, but I'm ready to be done with it! Next one will be faster, and will include quite a bit more Lily. She's been rather quiet these past couple chapters, hasn't she? Don't worry, that's soon to be fixed.**

**^^ Thank you for reading this far. Reviews are always appreciated!**


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